


Natural

by rispacooper



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Comment Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, No Lube, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 03:30:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt for things-with-teeth for Smut Monday (which ended up being Smut Tuesday). "Woodsy sex". Though it isn't very smutty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Natural

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thingswithteeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithteeth/gifts).



There’s a rock or something digging into his back, Stiles tries not to think of what it was, (though the possibilities are there) a root, a pinecone, a piece of bone (a piece of _dead thing_ ), and he shudders away from the feeling. But arching his back puts his stomach there, right up against the body shifting over him. Derek’s hand slides up his shirt before Stiles can try to voice his complaint (the woods, the woods are dirty) but Derek’s hand is hot and dry so Stiles’ words stay a muffled noise in the back of his throat. 

He looks up but he can’t see anything, not really, the tops of trees, moonlight behind clouds, a shape of a bird (or a bat, a creepy, rabies-infected bat), and he groans softly and shuts his eyes. When he puts his hands out he gets palms full of scratching dried leaves and moist pieces of dirt. The dirt sticks to the bare skin of his back where his shirt is riding up, where Derek is pulling it up, and he panics a little when Derek goes for the fly of his jeans (thinking about sticky dirt on his bare skin in other places). 

Reaching up grinds the dirt into Derek’s back, where Derek is all bare, hot skin and no shirt, no protection at all from nature because he doesn’t need any. He grunts for it, as if the dirt Stiles is pushing into his shoulders is a good thing and Stiles opens his mouth to protest. 

The night air is cool on his tongue, and it smells like a garden in the spring, like overturned earth and darkness, and pine like fall and Christmas, and Derek, who smells like sweat and nighttime itself. If Stiles turns his head (and he does) the smell gets stronger, and the ground is damp and soft on his cheek. 

It’s not a pillow, because this isn’t romantic, no matter how Derek is trailing kisses up his neck and stripping his clothes from him. Stiles isn’t on a bed of moss, it’s scratchy, pointy leaves and dirt, and he can feel it, all of it, hitting him in strange places, touching him in strange places, cool and new everywhere where Derek is hot and familiar until even Derek seems different. 

Derek can see in the dark, so the woods aren’t scary to him. Derek is an animal (in so many ways) but he brought Stiles here, So Stiles opens his eyes, blinking to realize how much better he can see now, especially when he looks to the side. He can see Derek’s shoulders that way, no longer gleaming in the faint light because they are marked with Stiles’ hands and dirt. He puts his hands back to the ground without thinking (ignoring thoughts of worms and bugs and focusing on how quickly he can crush the dirt to pieces in his fingers). He crushes it against the skin of Derek’s lower back too. 

The sound Derek makes against his throat is wet and heavy. If Stiles turns his head the dirt will stick to the damp imprint of Derek’s mouth. He does it anyway, confused, breathless, and then incredibly (unbelievably) turned on when Derek licks it off (as if it isn’t dirt, as if it’s dirt _and_ Stiles that he is tasting, and he can’t help himself). He tugs at Stiles’ jeans again so Stiles rolls his hips up to help him, shaking a little when his bare ass lands in that same dark earth. He doesn’t know where his jeans go and he doesn’t even think to look for them when Derek slides back over him and pushes him down. 

That seems to be his plan, pushing down and breathing heavily, making small, rough motions in an effort to get closer, to push Stiles right down into the dirt under him until Stiles is arching up to pull Derek down with him. (He can feel the ground giving, clinging to his skin in places Derek hasn’t touched yet.) If he wasn’t so hard he’d say something, ( _Your family’s land I get it. It’s a wolf thing right?_ ) but despite his racing mind and his dry mouth he is so, so hard. Derek still has his jeans on and it’s wrong, it chafes and it hurts a little and it isn’t, it isn’t (natural) what Stiles wants. 

Stiles has clumps of dirt in his hands but he shoves at Derek’s jeans anyway and turns his head as Derek moves. He gets skin against his mouth, earthy tasting, metallic, Derek and forest, and with a shocked moan he realizes that he is kissing Derek’s shoulders and the tracks of dirt left by his fingers. It’s on his tongue and he’s not a wolf but it makes him moan again, louder, with his head back. 

The dirt’s in his hair now, but he keeps his head back with his throat under Derek’s hand and Derek’s mouth above his. There’s dirt and Derek on his tongue, and Derek lets out a wild sound when he finds it there. The scent is everywhere, mixing with sex smells, and Stiles whimpers a little to think of what it must be like for Derek. ( _Primal_. Stiles had teased him about wanting something primal. Now he just wants to get fucked, worms and bugs be damned). 

He twists his fingers into hair and shuts his eyes and waits while Derek takes his pants off. He has never been this patient in his life (or impatient, tearing at the ground and then at the back of Derek’s neck when Derek slides down to him again). It’s only for a moment and then he’s turned, facedown right into moist decay and life and welcoming, soft moss and a bed of leaves. He’d insisted on lube before coming out here (he hates himself) but the swipe of Derek’s tongue through dirt and leaves and over skin makes him shudder and open his mouth. Warm spit makes him inhale, hold it, and it hurts, spit-slick isn’t very slick at all and Derek has a harsh grip on his thighs, holding him still, and then it’s good, full and hot and normal, except for their nudity in the dirt and the dark and the moonlight and this must be what Scott feels, it must be what _Derek_ feels, wild and alive and mysterious (except with ass sex). 

It’s filthy and it’s free and Stiles inhales the scent of them as Derek pushes all the way inside of him and catches his breath so Stiles can hear it. Derek is breathing this in too, with loud, uneven gulps, and his hands are gripping hard at Stiles’ hips now, barely holding on. 

Stiles shuts his eyes again and curls his hands into the dirt as Derek fucks him. 

It’s what he wants too, and it feels good. Natural.


End file.
